


and life, and tears, and love

by fireblazie



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-11-17 01:41:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11265324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: A collection of tiny tumblr fics in response to prompts, primarily extra scenes from my existing fic.





	1. in which there is a moving castle: in the past just after viktor and yuuri first meet

**Author's Note:**

> was talking to a couple people who said it might be a good idea to stick all my tumblr fic (not that there's much of it) in one place. so here we go!
> 
> title from alexandr pushkin's "to . . ."; translation taken from [here](http://russiantumble.com/russiantoenglish/it-has-to-be-love-pushkin/).

**the hmc AU in the past just after yuuri and viktor first met**

set in [this universe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9623369)

_for[superman](https://kixboxer.tumblr.com)_

 

“Your date is here,” Yuri says to Viktor in the flattest, most disinterested tone he can muster.

Viktor outright beams, turning to Yuri so as to better bathe him in the glow of his happiness, the happiness of going on his first date with Yuuri, the most wonderful man in the world with the strongest, warmest heart, oh, he must look absolutely magnificent, as the rest of the world pales in comparison to his ethereal beauty—

“He’s wearing jorts,” Yuri says in disgust.

Viktor blinks at him. Yuri crosses his arms over his chest, looking decidedly unimpressed.

“Are you saying,” Viktor begins, a hand placed delicately over his heart, “that Yuuri’s _legs_ are _exposed_?”

“What part of he’s wearing fucking jorts did you not understand—” but Viktor is already rushing down the stairs.

The shorts— _jorts_ , because there’s no denying what they are—truly are terrible. They’re ill-fitting and hang much too loosely from his hips, and have the dubious honor of possibly being the only article of clothing that makes Yuuri’s ass look nonexistent.

But.

 _But_.

“Viktor?” Yuuri calls, uncertain. “Are you okay?”

“—knees,” Viktor says in a strangled voice.

“I’m—I’m sorry?”

“Nothing,” Viktor says smoothly, descending the stairs and coming to a stop in front of Yuuri’s puzzled, gorgeous face. “Shall we go?” he asks, offering Yuuri his arm.

Yuuri takes it, slender fingers wrapping around his bicep. “Okay,” he says, following him out the door.

 

*

 

“The date went wonderfully well!” Viktor enthuses when he returns home.

“I didn’t ask,” Yuri says.

“He is utterly perfect,” Viktor goes on, sinking into the couch and pressing his face against one of the pillows. “I am not even worthy to bask in his presence—”

“Oh god,” Yuri groans.

“And his _knees_ are the most magnificent knees my eyes have ever beheld—”

“Oh _god_ ,” Yuri says in disgust. “Stop. Please, stop.”

There is blessed, blessed silence for all of two minutes. Until:

“They’re so symmetrical,” Viktor says dreamily.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Yuri says in horror.


	2. the merry-go-round of life: after the 2017 gpf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After every competition, Yuri returns to the cemetery.

**merry-go-round of life, after the 2017 grand prix finals?**

set in [this universe](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10249196)

_for[not-wisely](http://not-wisely.tumblr.com/)_

 

After every competition, Yuri returns to the cemetery.

Clutching a bouquet of yellow sunflowers, Yuri meanders through the grass, head bowed down with the weight of his gold medal as he passes tombstone after tombstone. He makes the familiar trek across freshly trimmed grass, arriving at last at two tombstones, both beginning to show signs of age.

One is his own, technically, and he pats it halfheartedly in greeting before focusing his gaze on the one next to it.

“Hey, Grandpa,” he says quietly, tracing the letters of his name reverently. “I won us another gold.” He brushes away a cobweb from the base of his grave before setting the sunflowers down. They’d always been his grandfather’s favorite. He slips the medal from his neck and lays it next to the flowers. “Told you I would, didn’t I?”

He takes a seat directly on the grass, drumming his fingers on his knees as he takes in the scent of the grass, soaks in the rays of the sun on this sweltering afternoon. He stares at the dates etched on his grandfather’s memorial: _1936 – 1999._

“I told you to live for twenty more years,” he sighs, reclining all the way down onto the grass. A ladybug scuttles away from him hurriedly. “But you quit after a year? C’mon, Grandpa. You—” His throat closes up, suddenly, and he shuts his eyes. “You could’ve done better than that.”

“He was very lonely,” a voice says, and Yuri bats his eyes open to see Viktor kneeling in front of his grandfather’s grave.

Yuri thinks of the last day he’d spent with his grandfather, the last day he’d spent on this earth before crossing over. The afternoon he’d spent making pirozhki, the quiet dinner he’d had, the way he’d drifted off into sleep.

“He went peacefully,” Viktor goes on. “He went in his sleep.” He turns to face Yuri, and it’s with an uncharacteristic, open sort of gentleness that Yuri’s only seen him show Yuuri. “He asked about you, after.”

Yuri shuts his eyes again. Viktor remains quiet. Somewhere, a cricket chirps.

“Has he—” Yuri begins, uncertain. “Has he—been reborn?”

“No,” Viktor says. “No, not for many more years.”

Yuri says nothing, squinting instead at the sky.

Then: “Oh, Yuuri, there you are.”

Yuri shifts his gaze to find Yuuri standing next to Viktor, who’s still kneeling on the grass. Yuuri catches his eye and smiles at him, holding up a paper bag.

“I hope I’m not overstepping,” he says, in that unobtrusive way he always has, “but I thought it would be—appropriate.”

Yuri peers into the bag, and his breath catches.

 _Pirozhki_.

When he looks up, Yuuri is looking at him with that same, unconditional gentleness, and Viktor has produced a bottle of vodka.

“It’s not quite a Grand Prix banquet,” he says with a wry grin, “but—”

Yuri reaches into the bag and bites into a bun even as his eyes well up. He blinks rapidly, staring up at the sky. Stupid sun.

“No,” he says, savoring the warmth of the food and the alcohol and the company of two grim reapers. “No, it’s— _better._ ”


	3. raise a tiger verse: viktor teaches yuri how to drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want a unicorn frapp,” Yuri demands as Viktor smoothly pulls up to a Starbucks drive-thru in his Tesla.

**extra scenes from how to raise a tiger, and/or six months in the future!**

set in [this universe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/671699)

_for[kevystel](https://kevystel.tumblr.com)_

 

 

“I want a unicorn frapp,” Yuri demands as Viktor smoothly pulls up to a Starbucks drive-thru in his Tesla. He finishes rattling off his order (a quad grande iced caramel macchiato with extra caramel drizzle on top) and peers at Yuri over his Gucci sunglasses as the voice on the speaker crackles, “Will that all for you, sir?”

Yuri scowls at him from the passenger seat. “Unicorn frapp,” he hisses.

Viktor taps his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know about that, Yura,” he says. “Those things are supposed to have terrifying amounts of calories. As a responsible adult, I’m not sure I should be encouraging this sort of behavior.”

“ _Bullshit and lies,_ ” Yuri spits out, “you went through three family-sized bags of shrimp chips when you thought Yuuri was hooking up with an ex-boyfriend that didn’t even fucking exist.”

Viktor can’t argue with that. His Yurochka has really come so far along, he thinks fondly, being able to piece together such well-formulated arguments with only a few words of profanity scattered along the way. “Tell you what,” he says, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he informs the voice on the speaker that that will be all for now, thank you, “if you can drive us home and back again without getting pulled over, I’ll make it a venti.”

It’s a loaded request. To date, Yuri has driven away no less than four professional driving instructors, and has made the personal acquaintance of several police officers on traffic patrol. Sometimes, Viktor is almost a little proud. Yuuri tells him that it should really be a cause for concern, but his Yuuri likes to worry too much, sometimes.

“Deal,” Yuri says.

They switch places in the middle of the parking lot, Yuri adjusting the seat and mirrors appropriately before abruptly turning the corner and speeding down the street. 

“Yellow light,” Viktor says calmly as they approach the intersection.

Yuri floors it, crossing three lanes of traffic before taking a sharp turn and swiftly merging onto the freeway.

Viktor adjusts his sunglasses and takes a delicate sip from his caramel macchiato. 

“Just like home,” he murmurs wistfully, and Yuri cracks the _tiniest_ smile beside him.

 

*

  

“Do you know how fast you were going?” the police officer asks sternly as he peers into the car. 

“Not nearly fast enough,” Yuri mutters sullenly. 

“Excuse me?”

“Excuse _him,_ ” Viktor interjects smoothly, batting his eyelashes at the officer. “He’s—ah, learning. You know how it is. Couldn’t you let him off with a warning, just this once?”

The police officer levels him with an unimpressed glare. “This is his third warning. I gave him the last one.”

“Oh, but he won’t do it again,” Viktor says. “I’ll keep a close eye on him, Officer.” He reaches over and places a hand on his wrist. He slips off his sunglasses with the other hand. “You can trust me.”

Yuri looks about three seconds away from throwing up. The officer turns purple.

“Well,” he stammers. “Well. I suppose—just this once.”

“Thank you,” Viktor says, very sincerely. “Yura. Yura, tell the nice officer that you are sorry and you will never do it again.”

Yuri tells Viktor exactly what he’d like to do to him in extremely detailed Russian.

“He says he is very sorry and he will never do it again,” Viktor translates.

“Right,” the police officer says, still reeling from the Viktor Nikiforov Experience. “Well. Go on, then. Drive safe.”

“Of course,” Viktor enthuses, and not-so-subtly nudges Yuri with his elbow. Yuri drives down the freeway and takes their exit at exactly five miles under the speed limit.

“You lost the bet,” Viktor informs him pleasantly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Yuri mutters.

  

*

  

 

> **YOU:** Love, will you pick up a tall unicorn frappuccino on your way home
> 
> **BEAUTIFUL DANCE MAJOR YUURI KATSUKI:** uh sure, but… why
> 
> **YOU:** Yurochka had a bad day L
> 
> **BEAUTIFUL DANCE MAJOR YUURI KATSUKI:** oh poor guy! Ok will do

 

*

  

Viktor knocks on Yuri’s door and opens it quietly before Yuri tells him to come in. Predictably, Yuri glares at him over his laptop, orange headphones perched over his ears.

Viktor holds up his unicorn frappuccino.

“Tall, instead of venti,” he says nonchalantly. “I thought it was appropriate, since you only lasted four-and-a-half minutes before being pulled over. Really, Yura, I thought you’d learned by now.” 

Yuri slips his headphones off. “Are you shitting me,” he says flatly.

Viktor raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you really _don’t_ want—” He takes a quick sip, and isn’t quite able to school his face into a neutral expression. “Oh. Yura, that’s disgusting.”

Yuri makes grabby-hands at him. “Give it,” he demands, and Viktor decides to play dangerously with his life by reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately before handing him his precious, precious drink.

Yuri gulps a third of it down in two seconds flat. “Thanks,” he mutters into his bedsheets. 

“Only the best for my Yurochka,” Viktor chirps, and closes the door behind him just as a pillow thuds soundly against where his head would have been. His Yurochka has such impeccable aim, he thinks affectionately. So talented, so wonderful. It clearly runs in the family.

 


	4. raise a tiger verse: yuri's prom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But what do you mean you’re not going to prom?” Viktor asks, a perplexed furrow in his brow.
> 
> “Prom is stupid,” Yuri mutters sullenly, not looking up from his phone, “and ‘m not goin’, damn it.”

**raise a tiger verse, yuri's prom/homecoming/junior prom/winter formal**

set in [this universe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/671699)

_for[superman](https://kixboxer.tumblr.com)_  

 

 

> **OTABEK ALTIN:** I won’t be able to come back this weekend, sorry
> 
> **YOU:** oh
> 
> **YOU:** why not?
> 
> **OTABEK ALTIN:** College things. Finals.
> 
> **YOU:** ok
> 
> **YOU:** next week?
> 
> **OTABEK ALTIN:** Of course. See you then.

 

*

 

“But what do you mean you’re not going to prom?” Viktor asks, a perplexed furrow in his brow.

“Prom is stupid,” Yuri mutters sullenly, not looking up from his phone, “and ‘m not goin’, damn it.”

Viktor eyes him carefully. “Well,” he says, “I suppose if that’s your final decision.”

“It is,” Yuri says firmly, and for once, Viktor leaves it at that.

 

*

 

Yuri should’ve known better.

“Viktor says you’re not going to prom,” Yuuri begins right as Yuri stuffs his mouth with a large spoonful of katsudon. Yuri chews irritably at the pork cutlet and rice, glaring as Yuuri watches him calmly.

Yuri swallows. “So what if I’m not? I don’t want to. And you can’t _make_ me.”

“No, of course not,” Yuuri says, soothingly. “But it just seems very sudden, is all. You said you were going to go, and then all of a sudden… you weren’t. I was just wondering if something happened to change your mind.”

“Nothing happened,” Yuri says, viciously stabbing at his eggs. “No- _thing.”_

Yuuri leans back in his chair and waits.

“I just,” Yuri starts.

Yuuri smiles, patient.

“I don’t have anyone to—to _go_ with,” Yuri mutters.

“You can always go in a group of friends,” Yuuri suggests.

“There’s nobody—that I _want_. To go with. That. Can make it. Or. Would want to.” Yuri grits out.

“Ah,” Yuuri says, completely unsurprised. “That’s unfortunate.” He stands up and crosses the kitchen to dump his plates in the sink. “Well, it’s up to you. But I think it would be a shame to miss it altogether just because of a boy that can’t make it.”

“Who says I’m missing it because Beka’s not coming back!” Yuri snarls, and is treated to the sight of Yuuri’s beatific smile. “Ugh. _Fuck._ ”

Yuuri turns back to the sink, and Yuri lets himself get lost in the sound of running water and clinking dinnerware. “S’ stupid,” he mumbles. “Obviously he wasn’t gonna go with me. We’re not. _Dating_ , or whatever. And he’s in college, why would he go to some dumbass high school prom?”

Yuuri makes a vague noise of assent.

Yuri begins mixing up his rice and pork in methodical circles. “He just sees me as some dumb kid,” he says into his bowl. “Even though I’m eighteen. I’ve been eighteen for two months, damn it.” He sags down into his seat until his forehead is pressed against the cool countertop. “What do you do when you like a guy,” he mutters to the floor.

“It helps when you have a common interest,” Yuuri says thoughtfully.

Yuri scoffs. “What was yours and Viktor’s common interest?”

“The difficulties of raising a cat,” Yuuri says vaguely.

“We don’t have a cat,” Yuri says.

“No, of course we don’t,” Yuuri says, patting him on the head absentmindedly as he leaves Yuri to finish his food in isolated misery.

 

*

 

Yuri does, in the end, wind up going to prom.

He sits in the corner of the ballroom, dressed in a navy-blue tux Viktor had bought specifically for the occasion, shoulder-length hair pinned up loosely in a bun. He stares morosely down at his second glass of punch that night. It is, unfortunately, not spiked.

“Wanna dance?” Kenjirou asks him, grinning widely.

“No,” Yuri says flatly, and Kenjirou shrugs before spinning away.

“That was rude,” Viktor admonishes him, appearing from seemingly out of nowhere. Yuri glowers.

“ _Why are you here,_ ” he hisses.

“They needed last-minute chaperones!” Viktor says innocently. “Yuuri and I wanted to do our part for your school, as they have provided you with such valuable education—”

“ _Leave me alone, old man._ ” Yuri shoves him away, right into Yuuri’s waiting arms. Disgusting.

Yuri downs cup after cup of un-spiked punch, in the vain hope that if he drinks enough it will magically turn into alcohol. But Viktor and Yuuri are frighteningly efficient as chaperones, and several students who attempt to slip alcohol into the punch can only back away in the face of Viktor’s eerily mechanical smile and Yuuri’s disappointed frown.

Thirty minutes later, Viktor and Yuuri begin to dance.

Yuri reaches for another cup of punch.

 

*

 

Maybe Yuri’s a little desperate. Maybe he’s a little lonely. Maybe he’s a little of both.

 

 

 

 

> **YOU:** pls save me
> 
> **YOU:** _Sent a video._
> 
> **OTABEK ALTIN:** …is that Yuuri lifting Viktor up
> 
> **OTABEK ALTIN:** …with ‘Time of Our Lives’ playing in the background
> 
> **YOU:** YES
> 
> **YOU:** SAVE ME
> 
> **OTABEK ALTIN:** _Sent a picture._
> 
> **YOU:** wtf
> 
> **YOU:** you’re BACK IN TOWN you asshole
> 
> **OTABEK ALTIN:** I know. Sorry.
> 
> **OTABEK ALTIN:** Do you want some ice cream? My treat.
> 
> **YOU:** I am so pissed at you
> 
> **YOU:** you are buying me the whole damn shop
> 
> **OTABEK ALTIN:** That’s fair
> 
> **YOU:** be there in 10

 

*

 

“You!” Yuri barrels through the doors of the ice-cream shop, immediately zoning in on Otabek in the corner, idly licking at two scoops of dark chocolate chip. He’s wearing faded blue jeans and an old sports jersey. He looks good, Yuri thinks irritably, even as he points an accusing finger in Otabek’s face.

“What would you like?” Otabek inquires calmly. “I’ll pay. I said so.”

“I said I wanted the whole damn shop,” Yuri snaps, but Otabek only watches him without a word.

“Rocky road in a waffle cone?” Otabek says as Yuri continues to glare at him. Yuri only barely manages to refrain from flinching. It’s his usual. So what if Otabek remembered? _So what._

“Fine,” he mutters, “but this isn’t over yet!”

Otabek returns with Yuri’s ice cream, which Yuri digs into greedily. “So,” Yuri says, valiantly battling a particularly nasty case of brain freeze, “what are you doing here? After you said you weren’t gonna be back.”

“It was a last-minute thing,” Otabek says, sighing quietly. “I couldn’t sit in my dorm any longer. Had to get out, you know?”

Yuri narrows his eyes at him. “And why didn’t you text me when you got back?”

Otabek sighs, a little more heavily this time. “It’s your prom, Yura. I didn’t want to—interrupt.”

“ _Interrupt_ !” Yuri spits out a little bit of ice cream, appalled at the very notion. “It’s a stupid prom. It doesn’t even—it doesn’t even _mean_ anything, not if—”

“Not if?”

“Nothing,” Yuri mutters, wilting beneath Otabek’s impassive gaze. Still, he determinedly says nothing, focusing instead on the crunch of his waffle cone between his teeth. He steals glances at Otabek out of the corner of his eye, noting the breadth of his shoulders, the bruises on his knuckles. Otabek has—really nice hands.

It’s a realization that’s he’s been sitting on for a while now. Not the nice hands thing, though that _is_ a part of it. But rather, the realization that he prefers Otabek’s company to just about anyone else means something… else. Something deeper. It’s the realization that he’d _wanted_ to go to prom with him, as stupid as the idea had been. The realization that he’s sitting at an ice cream parlor with him on prom night, and he can’t imagine being anywhere else.

_What would Viktor do,_ he wonders.

_Something stupid,_ he thinks.

He takes another bite of his ice cream and stares at Otabek’s sports jersey. It’s a Barcelona jersey.

With the look of a man going to war, Yuri leans across the table, meeting Otabek’s gaze head-on. “Beka,” he says, hands balled into fists, “do you—like Messi?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spot the kdrama reference!


	5. raise a tiger verse: father's day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri crams a forkful of pasta in his mouth. “Father’s Day is on Sunday,” he mumbles, tomato sauce smeared all over his lips, but Viktor still hears it loud and clear.

**raise a tiger verse, father's day**

set in [this universe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/671699)

 

Yuri is strangely quiet at dinner.

Viktor chews on his linguini thoughtfully, casting glances at his younger cousin from beneath his lashes. It’s a game they play, and one that Viktor has become very good at: caring while pretending not to, and the one who gets caught first loses. It’s a stupid game, his Yuuri has told him more than once, but Viktor’s lived this way for so long that he doesn’t quite know how to stop.

At length, Yuri clears his throat, fixing his gaze on the corner of the table where Viktor’s phone sits. “They celebrate weird holidays here,” he says.

“Hm,” Viktor says noncommittally. “Americans often do. Wasn’t it National Doughnut Day just a few weeks ago? You liked that one, though. You and Kenjirou came home with entirely too many donuts.” He tries, but fails to inject the appropriate amount of disappointment in his voice. He had stolen two donuts from them when they weren’t looking. “What is it this time?”

Yuri crams a forkful of pasta in his mouth. “Father’s Day is on Sunday,” he mumbles, tomato sauce smeared all over his lips, but Viktor still hears it loud and clear.

Viktor falters slightly, but manages to catch himself just in time. “Ah,” he says. Yuri shoves more pasta into his mouth. “Well, that’s not so strange,” Viktor continues. “We have something similar back home.”

Yuri says nothing.

It’s one of those conversations where Viktor feels as though he’s treading on very, very thin ice; he thinks about Yuri gliding effortlessly in the rink, preparing himself for a jump he’s not ready for, extending his leg behind him and leaping into the air—

“Is there anything I can—” Viktor starts, just as Yuri shoves his chair back, scraping noisily against the wooden floor.

“I gotta do my homework,” he mutters, hastily fleeing the room.

—and crashing terribly, spectacularly.

 

*

 

Viktor says, “I don’t know what to do with him.”

Yuuri tilts his head at him and says, “I don’t think there  _ is _ anything to do with him.”

Viktor pauses. “Well.  _ Yes _ . Usually, I don’t. I’m very hands-off with him, you know that. But he’s been so quiet lately. Too quiet. Almost—sad? I don’t know what to do with a sad Yura. I’d much rather have him be furious at me, stomping around in his room in his tiger print, listening to his terrible death metal and ignoring every word I say.” Viktor delicately twitches his nose. “I swear I caught him listening to Enya the other day.  _ Enya. _ ”

“Vitya,” Yuuri says patiently, and Viktor’s brain short-circuits briefly at the diminutive, “the Enya music is for his program. He wanted to try something different.”

It’s the eleventh time that Yuuri has called him Vitya, Viktor thinks dreamily. He wonders if Yuuri will say it again. Then he realizes what else Yuuri had said. “Yura had wanted to try something different?” He peers at Yuuri, dubious. “ _ Enya _ -different?”

“Well,” Yuuri hedges, “Otabek may have convinced him with the promise of an original song for his next program?”

Viktor makes a mental note to ask Otabek what his intentions towards Yuri are. He seems like a nice boy, but then again, most people think  _ Viktor’s _ a nice boy, and, oh, Yuuri is giving him that Look again, which probably means he’s talking out loud.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Yuuri says dryly, “or else Yuri probably never will speak to you again.”

“No, I wouldn’t dream of interrogating Otabek Altin, sixteen-years-old, five-foot-six, sophomore at—”

“Oh my  _ god _ , Vitya—”

Viktor stops short, leaning into Yuuri’s personal space. “Say it again.”

Yuuri flushes, a delightful red that spreads from the apples of his cheeks down to the graceful column of his neck.

“Don’t harass my students,” Yuuri manages, poking Viktor solidly in the chest.

Viktor grasps his hand, slotting their fingers together. “Will you make it worth my while if I don’t?”

Yuuri rolls his eyes. “I can’t imagine who would possibly think you’re a  _ nice boy _ .”

Viktor falls back on the couch dramatically, tugging Yuuri down with him. “My Yuuri wounds me, me, the man who adores him and would pluck every single star from the sky for him, who would—”

“Shut up,” Yuuri says, laughing.

“Make me?” Viktor asks hopefully.

“That’s a terrible line,” Yuuri informs him, and, oh, his face is suddenly very, very close.

“But you’re going to fall for it anyway?” Viktor murmurs, sneaking a hand behind Yuuri’s neck and stroking the soft hairs he finds there.

Yuuri grins at him, a wickedly lovely sight, and Viktor finds that he’s the one who falls helplessly yet again.

 

*

 

“What are you doing on Sunday,” Yuri mumbles as he’s warming up on the ice.

Yuuri blinks. “Well. The rink will be closed. I signed up for a summer class, so I guess I could start on some of the reading.”

“No,” Yuri grits out, determinedly glaring at the ice. “I mean. With your. Dad.”

“Ah.” Yuuri adjusts his glasses, considering. “I mean, we usually don’t do anything big for Father’s Day? My dad’s not really into that stuff. We’ll probably just stay in. Have a nice quiet dinner. Something like that.”

Yuri stares at him. “That’s—That’s it?”

Yuuri shrugs. “Well, yeah. That’s what we’ve always done.”

Yuri stares off into the distance as he skates figure-eights, and Yuuri studies him from his vantage point, leaning against the boards.

“Viktor doesn’t expect anything from you,” he says quietly, and Yuri stiffens. “And besides, it’s—” Yuuri spreads his hands out. “Commercialism, mostly? Like every other holiday. You don’t need some arbitrary holiday to tell you when to show affection for the father figures in your life. It’s just. It’s silly. But it’s fun. I don’t know. You don’t need to stress so much about it.”

“Am not,” Yuri snarls, skating faster.

“Okay,” Yuuri says.

Yuri comes to an abrupt stop in front of him. “Viktor’s not.” He balls his hands into tight, angry fists. “He’s not my dad.”

“No,” Yuuri says, slightly bemused. “He’s not.”

“But he’s still. He’s. He’s.” Yuri falls into a frustrated silence. Yuuri waits for him to gather his thoughts, having learned that it’s imperative to let Yuri figure things out on his own, lest he get shoved away. “He’s… important.” It sounds as though it physically pains him to admit it, which it probably does.

“Anything you do for him, he’ll appreciate,” Yuuri tells him. “In his own, special, Viktor way.”

That earns him a snort. “Whatever,” Yuri scoffs. “Are we practicing or what?”

Yuuri smiles. “Alright. Let’s go.”

 

*

 

Yuri clutches the hastily wrapped gift in his hands, staring at Viktor’s closed door. It’s Sunday night, now, and the day had passed quietly, uneventfully. It’s just—it’s so  _ stupid _ , is what it is. He didn’t even have proper wrapping paper. He’d used their leftover Christmas giftwrap, and Frosty the fucking Snowman grins cheerfully at him from the crumpled blue paper.

Viktor’s not his father. He’s never wanted to be, and Yuri’s never wanted him to be, either. But he came when nobody else did, giving Yuri a second shot at family. Because even though he still can’t cook worth a damn and has zero shame whatsoever about what he and Yuuri get up to behind closed doors (and sometimes not so closed doors, that rotten perverted exhibitionist bastard), he always makes a point to pick Yuri up from school whenever it’s raining, and he’s never, ever missed a skating exhibition.

Besides, Yuri’s gotten attached to Makkachin.

“Ugh, whatever,” he mutters, tossing the gift to the floor and fleeing to his room. He turns off the light and buries himself beneath the blankets, praying for a swift and painless death.

 

*

 

Viktor shuffles out of his bedroom on Monday morning, stifling a yawn. His foot nudges something on his way out, and he rubs at his eyes before realizing that yes, there is indeed what appears to be a Christmas gift on the floor.

He kneels down, tearing the gift open.

He lets out a bark of startled, genuine laughter at the sight of an orange, tiger print tie.

It’s utterly  _ hideous _ .

He loves it.


	6. raise a tiger verse: home

**raise a tiger verse: yurio comes home to viktor and yuuri to visit from college**

set in [this universe](http://archiveofourown.org/series/671699)

_for[sonatine](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/)_

 

The apartment smells like freshly cooked rice.

Yuri tiptoes across the entryway of their apartment, backpack slung across his right shoulder. It’s—quiet. Not quite silent, though; if Yuri strains his ears he can hear cozy chatter coming from the kitchen, as well as the faint hiss of water from the sink.

He’s only been gone for two weeks, but it’s the first time he’s been away from their apartment in so long. His dorm room is decent, if a bit cramped, but it’s not home. It’s hard to call a tiny room with enough room only for a bed and a desk home. It’s a place to rest and do homework, nothing more. He’d lain awake the first couple of nights, staring blankly at the ceiling, an odd feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He’d thought it was indigestion, at first, but it hadn’t gone away, just sort of settled into a dull ache that flared up when he thought about bowls of katsudon and pirozhki, warm and filling and whole.

Otabek, when Yuri had told him about it, had given him a small smile, dryly amused.

“What,” Yuri had said, glaring.

“Yura,” he had said, patiently. “You obviously miss them.”

“What,” Yuri had sputtered. “I don’t—I do  _not_ , you take that back, you fucker.”

But Otabek, not for the first time and probably not for the last, had been right after all. Yuri can’t deny it, not when he’s standing here next to the front door, only ten steps into the apartment and throat already thick with emotion. He toes his shoes off in time for Makkachin to bound down the hallway and leap excitedly at him.

“Down, Makka,” Yuri murmurs, scratching behind his ears. Makkachin licks at his face, and Yuri lets laughter bubble out of him.

“Makka, what— _Yura,_ ” Viktor exclaims with a heart-shaped grin, wide and happy. “You’re here!”

Yuuri follows behind him, wearing a pastel blue apron. His eyes soften when they alight upon Yuri’s slouched form, his voice quietly pleased as he says, “Welcome home.”

Yuri thinks of the way Hiroko and Toshio always welcome Yuuri back whenever he visits, the way Hiroko throws her arms around him and says, “ _Okaeri_ ” with such warmth and affection. He thinks of the way Yuuri returns her embrace and greeting, softly, fondly.

“ _Tadaima,_ ” Yuri says in halting Japanese, and is greeted by Yuuri’s surprised smile, and then Viktor’s knowing laugh. Makkachin barks at him and licks his hand. Yuri avoids eye contact with them all, barely suppressing a smile as he pins his gaze to the floor.

_I’m home._

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi [on tumblr!](https://fireblazie.tumblr.com)


End file.
